 | Sounds and Sweet Airs |  |
9
A Chest of Viols
Inscribed to Arnold Dolmetsch.
Old music, and old instruments—and O
The harmony they make,
As touched by Music's magian wand, the bow,
One after one they wake,
Voice after voice, as sister answers brother,
Answering each other.
Sedately as the Muses on their lawn,
Under the pines of Helicon!
The harmony they make,
As touched by Music's magian wand, the bow,
One after one they wake,
Voice after voice, as sister answers brother,
Answering each other.
Sedately as the Muses on their lawn,
Under the pines of Helicon!
A Chest of Viols, every one the dream
Of some old craftsman's heart;
And each a well-trimmed argosy doth seem,
Planned by his careful art
Her burden rich to bear of mellow sound
From the profound
Valleys of that lone land where Music dwells
Beside delight's most hidden wells.
Of some old craftsman's heart;
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Planned by his careful art
Her burden rich to bear of mellow sound
From the profound
Valleys of that lone land where Music dwells
Beside delight's most hidden wells.
Hush! for her breast athrill, Treble proposes
The theme, so sweet, so rare,
It seems an odour breathed from Herrick's roses;
Then, as in love's despair,
Grave Tenor in his amber voice replies,
With tenderer sighs
Alto complains, in resonant barytone,
Viol'-da-Gamba mocks her moan.
The theme, so sweet, so rare,
It seems an odour breathed from Herrick's roses;
Then, as in love's despair,
Grave Tenor in his amber voice replies,
With tenderer sighs
Alto complains, in resonant barytone,
Viol'-da-Gamba mocks her moan.
Together now, now one the other leads,
Like nightingales in May;
Their conversation no harsh discord breeds,
So sweet the words they say,
And, though all speak together, every word
Is richly heard;
Naught rude, obscure, blatant, or out of joint,
Marring the courtly counterpoint.
Like nightingales in May;
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So sweet the words they say,
And, though all speak together, every word
Is richly heard;
Naught rude, obscure, blatant, or out of joint,
Marring the courtly counterpoint.
Singing or silent, each knows well his place
And speaks in his own fashion,
None lords it o'er his fellows, but with grace
Discourses of his passion;
Each in melodious descant on the air,
Forgets his care.
They play like swallows courting on the wing,
Pursuing, meeting, sundering.
And speaks in his own fashion,
None lords it o'er his fellows, but with grace
Discourses of his passion;
Each in melodious descant on the air,
Forgets his care.
They play like swallows courting on the wing,
Pursuing, meeting, sundering.
O rare old music, brave old instruments,
And quaint Old Master's writing,
Whose art in that severe old style invents
New methods of delighting!
Here harmony waits on fair melody
Most sisterly,
And nobler, kindlier, lovelier music, none
Hath ripened under English sun.
And quaint Old Master's writing,
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New methods of delighting!
Here harmony waits on fair melody
Most sisterly,
And nobler, kindlier, lovelier music, none
Hath ripened under English sun.
'Tis gentle, sane, heart-easing ravishment,
Brooding on strains like this,
To sit ensphered in a divine content,
As one, grown young in bliss,
Upon a bank tree-shadowed, by a stream
Will dream and dream,
Letting thought's flock stray with each piping mood,
Cloistered in sylvan solitude.
Brooding on strains like this,
To sit ensphered in a divine content,
As one, grown young in bliss,
Upon a bank tree-shadowed, by a stream
Will dream and dream,
Letting thought's flock stray with each piping mood,
Cloistered in sylvan solitude.
| Sounds and Sweet Airs | |